Chapter 3 - The Tip Jar
Jake walked across the workshop, his rubber-soled shoes squeaking softly against the damp floor. He stopped a few feet from the old man, who quickly tried to fold his crumpled bills back into his frayed wallet, ashamed of being caught short.
"Hey," Jake said softly.
The old man looked up, his watery eyes swimming with embarrassment. "Listen, kid, I know. I'm wasting your time. I'll get the truck out of your way."
"No, you're not," Jake said. He reached into the back pocket of his faded canvas work trousers, pulling out a small, worn zip-up pouch. It was his personal tip jar savings—accumulated from two weeks of hauling heavy batteries, changing oil, and cleaning out greasy floor drains.
He unzipped the pouch and tipped it upside down onto the fender of the Ford.
A scatter of bills tumbled out onto the dusty metal: three twenties, two tens, and a handful of fives and ones. Exactly eighty-five dollars. It wasn't four hundred and fifty dollars, but it was everything Jake had saved toward replacing his own worn-out work boots for the coming winter.
"Here," Jake said, sliding the money toward the old man. "Take this. It's not enough for the full repair, but tell Greg you can pay half now and the rest on Friday. If he gives you a hard time, tell him I'll work off the balance this weekend for free."
The old man stared at the pile of cash on his fender, then looked up into Jake’s steady, honest brown eyes. A slow, trembling breath escaped the old man's chest.
"Son... you can't do this," the old man whispered, his voice thick with emotion. "This is your money. You earned this."
"You need it more than I need new boots," Jake smiled warmly. "My feet are tough. Now come on, let's go talk to Greg before he locks the office."
Before the old man could reply, the glass door of the office swung open.
Greg Miller marched out, his face twisted into an ugly scowl. He had been watching the entire exchange through the security monitor.
"What do we have here?" Greg barked, marching right up to them, his finger jabbing toward the money on the fender. "What is this little comedy routine?"
"Mr. Miller, he's short for the parts, but I'm chipping in my savings—" Jake started.
"You're chipping in nothing!" Greg shouted, cutting him off. He slapped his hand down onto the fender, scattering a few of the dollar bills onto the oily floor. "Are you out of your mind, Jake?! Since when do my shop helpers act as unauthorized lending institutions for every bum who wanders off the interstate with a broken-down clunker?!"
"He's not a bum, Mr. Miller, he needs his truck for work—"
"I don't care if he's the president of the United States!" Greg roared, his face flushing crimson. "Rule number one of Miller’s Auto Repair: we do not mix charity with business. The moment you start subsidizing deadbeat customers, you become a liability to this shop."
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Greg pointed a thick finger toward the locker room doors at the back of the shop.
"You're crossing lines you have no business touching, kid. Hand over your shop badge. You're fired. Get your jacket and get out of my garage right now."
